13 - Iona #3
Iona closes her eyes and when she concentrates, she can feel a very faint prickling across her skin and down the column of her spine. “Yes. There is abundant magic here.”
Xiomara leads them to the shore of the lake, then turns to address them.
“A witch’s sabbath is practiced far and wide in some form or other,” Xiomara says.
“There is no singular method of harvesting magic. I know the Greek rituals, your uncle can teach you the druidic way someday, and there are many countless cultures with their own customs, of course. As you grow older and travel, you will learn what suits you best.”
Iona nods, grateful for her guidance. She feels like a student again after weeks of lounging aimlessly. While she’s truly enjoyed her holiday, it is high time for her to be of use, as Morgan intended.
“Come,” Xiomara says, offering her hands.
Iona takes them and Xiomara grasps tightly. She takes deep breaths in and out, and Iona follows suit, closing her eyes.
“I can sense your apprehension,” Xiomara says.
Iona’s eyes pop open and she goes to apologize, but Xiomara squeezes her hands.
“No apologies. No shame. No regret,” Xiomara instructs. “You must let all negativity fall away.”
Iona nods and lowers her head, breathing deeply in and out again.
Doubt is a heavy weight on her consciousness.
She worries about her place in this society of highborn witches, the formality of a ritual she is meant to perform for the first time for a great crowd of strangers, and, most of all, she harbors a deep concern about the covens’ reaction to her invitation to witches and warlocks without a coven.
She hadn’t told Xiomara of this, and it seems Moira has neglected to mention it, to Iona’s surprise.
Perhaps Moira did so to sabotage her, because she knows it will be received poorly by their peers.
She dreads that Marcel and others will come only to be ostracized, but if she announces her intentions, the sempiterna covens might not see fit to attend.
Or, worst of all, there is always the chance that Marcel was unable to convince any in his acquaintance to attend. Then she might need to find some other way to convince them, on an individual basis if need be.
Her pendant is one of the best conduits for magic to be imbued upon others.
If she can help anyone in that endeavor so they may be able to conjure more than just feathers, it would mean more to her than any approval given by the covens.
If she can somehow manage to appease both at once, it will be her greatest triumph.
Following a peaceful interlude of silent mediation, Xiomara has her wash her face in the waters of the lake, before having her strip down to her chemise to anoint her with oil that smells distinctly of apples and cypress.
Xiomara dips fingers into her bowl and presses runic symbols upon Iona’s forehead, wrists, ankles, and knees, then has Iona lower her chemise to her waist to draw symbols over her heart, her womb, at the base of her neck, and along the curve of her spine.
Her knees buckle as she feels suddenly very lightheaded and nearly collapses into the dirt.
“Iona?” Ariadne catches her and holds her up.
“Not to worry,” Xiomara says calmly, pressing a gentle hand against Iona’s forehead.
Her eyelids droop as she nearly faints, her limbs heavy with an unpleasant prickling sensation that makes her itch.
“Deep breaths,” Xiomara reminds her.
Iona leans her head against Ariadne’s chest and listens to her steady heartbeat, until the sickening feeling finally subsides.
“There now,” Xiomara says. “All better.”
Ariadne helps her back onto her feet, keeping hold of her even when she’s steadied. “What happened?”
“I am exposing her soul to the magic around her, removing the barrier. It can be disorienting at first,” Xiomara says.
When they are certain Iona will not faint again, Ariadne braids her hair into a single plait down her back and conjures a pink mallow flower, fixing it to the end with a ribbon, then presses a kiss to Iona’s shoulder and steps away.
“There,” Xiomara says, setting her bowl aside and rubbing the excess oil into her hands.
Iona discreetly pulls her chemise back up to cover herself. “What will I wear?”
“That is entirely your decision,” Xiomara says. “It can be beneficial to remove every barrier, but if you would not be comfortable…”
“In front of all those people?” Iona’s cheeks burn. “I would not prefer that at all.”
“I thought so,” Xiomara chuckles. “Then I suggest this.”
She conjures an airy robe of white silk that drapes itself over Iona’s body.
The gossamer fabric is thin enough to see only the slightest hint of her tawny freckles beneath but provides suitable cover for her chest and legs.
Most of her back, however, is left exposed, nearly to the base of her spine.
Iona cranes her neck to try and look behind herself and see just how much of her is bare.
“You should not cover your mark,” Xiomara explains. “You must wear it proudly.”
Xiomara takes Iona’s braid and pulls it forward, so it rests against her front, the pink petals of Ariadne’s flower stark against the white of the robe.
“Now, I will demonstrate the ritual and then you will meditate for the remainder of the morning,” Xiomara says.
“Is that necessary?” Ariadne asks, glancing at the sun’s low position in the sky.
“A clear mind will foster greater results,” Xiomara says.
“We were able to perform the rituals at college without all this fuss,” Ariadne says with slight skepticism.
“And what were you able to manifest? A few streams of magic at most?” Xiomara asks. “Allow me to show you what a sabbath ritual can produce.”
A constant wind blusters through the secluded vale, causing stray hairs to come loose from Iona’s braid to tickle her bare back. The sun’s rays provide luxuriant warmth as the minutes tick by at an agonizingly slow pace.
Xiomara swims in the lake, undeterred by the cold, and Iona listens for the distant splashes.
Ariadne sits beside her, though she doesn’t bother with silent meditation, opting instead to read a book while she waits.
Iona cannot help harboring a bit of jealousy but reminds herself that she must be diligent.
After hours of silence, Iona is quite sure she has considered every possible way the ritual could fail.
She could trip on her robe and fall on her face.
She could pronounce the incantation incorrectly or forget it altogether, standing there in dumb silence while the covens mock and scorn her.
She cannot stand the thought of disappointing her friends or proving to her enemies that they were right to doubt her.
Perhaps she will not evoke the abundant magic that everyone expects.
The previous pendant bearer had been more than a century old and far more adept in all manner of arcane knowledge.
Iona has only studied for one solitary year, much of it preoccupied by Elise’s infernal attacks. How could she ever compare?
Stop. Ariadne’s thought is an unyielding force.
The ritual will be perfect as you are. Word will spread of your strength and grace until every person with even a trace of magic knows your name.
Come autumn, you will preside over a legion of witches and warlocks alike, all vying for your favor. Mark my words.
Ariadne stands and offers her hand, pulling Iona to her feet, then jerking her forward roughly so they are flush against each other. Ariadne’s warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her dress, raising goosebumps across her skin.
“I would not give my heart to a weak woman.” Ariadne stares her down in that way that always makes her heartbeat stutter. “Are you weak?”
Iona holds her intense gaze and slowly shakes her head. “No.”
“No. You most certainly are not.” Ariadne glances up to the sky. Now show them what I know to be true.
Iona looks over her shoulder. A line of carriages making their way up the mountain at otherworldly speeds, making streaks of black against the grey rock. The bright sky is littered with witches and warlocks flying on brooms or gliding through the air on conjured wings.
Ariadne steps away but keeps hold of her hand. Show them why Morgan chose you.